


Of As Yet Unknown Origins

by pamdizzle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Meeting, Alternate Universe, Fluff, Humor, M/M, OctoJohn, Romance, angst is mostly in the beginning and not very much, eventually, noshame, slight angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-04 11:40:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock is bored, takes a mission from Mycroft and then makes a discovery which leads him to believe he may well never be bored again. </p><p>Basically, OctoJohn is created in a lab at Baskerville and is treated as one might expect experiments to be treated (these are the brief, angsty bits included in the tags), before he is happened upon after the events of Baskerville and spirited away into the night by a mystified Sherlock Holmes. This is basically the introduction to what I plan to be a series of stories--by chapter--from John's creation to how we see him depicted in some of the pieces of art floating around on tumblr, most notably those by Archiaart...*clears throat* but not entirely. I hope to get some permission to embed some of the pics around which I plan to write a few scenarios, but hopefully I describe them well enough that you'll be able to know which pieces of art they're based around, depending on how familiar you are with OctoJohn. At any rate, this has been brewing for a while and I'm only hoping I don't fuck it up too badly and that I'm able to swallow what I've decided to bite off here...lol </p><p>Please read and let me know what you think. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Subject O-J03N-5679-WP45**

_-17 June 2011-_

_Subject appears withdrawn, skittish, sensitive to light and hostile when removed from ‘home’ environment. Appendages and torso appear healthy. Additional studies needed to determine health and organization of internal organs and gender. Intelligence is as yet undetermined. At present, the…’creature’ appears to operate instinctually._

_Interesting specimen. So far, attempts to replicate results have been unsuccessful._

_-J.S., DS_

**Subject O-J03N-5679-WP45**

_-21 July 2011-_

_Orally administered sustenance continues to allude us in our care of the subject, or, ‘Octo-John’ as Dr. Frankland has begun to call Subject O-J03N-5679-WP45 for short.  The subject must be sedated twice daily in order to receive nutrients intravenously. It allows the creature to live, but indicators are inconclusive as to how long. When conscious, the subject continues the appearance of instinctual awareness only—a disappointment in the extreme._

_Both in and outside of the tank, the subject exhibits signs of paranoia and fear. Its eyes are like that of a dog’s in some ways—as if it possesses the ability to experience sentient emotions, yet it fails to respond to basic emotional inputs. There is nothing as far as our tests have shown to indicate any outward expression beyond fear and confusion. It is…disconcerting. I have recommended humane euthanization more than once, however Dr. Frankland has refused. He views the creature as a sort of pet, I fear. Highly unprofessional._

_-J.S., DS_

**Subject O-J03N-5679-WP45**

_-12 Dec 2011-_

_I have been reassigned to level one research and development, and all files regarding the subject are to be relinquished to the HU-Marine Department by the end of the week. I shall record my last observations of the subject._

_It's progress has been purposely stunted by maintaining a ‘home’ environment of set dimensions, which confines our studies of the subject’s growth and development to unnatural constraints. Frankfort refuses to acknowledge the unscientific alterations this stipulation not only wreaks upon the experiment as a whole, but the continued survival and long-term health of the subject._

_The potential for sentience is, in my professional opinion, as yet inconclusive. More data is needed in order to determine whether or not the subject is self-aware. It is too soon to simply lock the creature away and/or subject it to a life no more meaningful than that of a goldfish in a bowl._

_-J.S., DS_

**-10 January 2012-**

“Yes, Mycroft, I am aware,” Sherlock practically sneers the affirmation into the phone before ending the call with an over-aggressive press of the finger. If words could travel through air waves and choke the person to which they were being spoken, Sherlock imagines his tone would be a noose about his brother’s neck presently.

He does not like government work; does not _care_ about queen and country. Give him a puzzle, an experiment, a good, bloody murder—that is the kind of work Sherlock enjoys. Traipsing about military bases in search of evidence to suggest unsanctioned activities is the height of boredom. Glowing rabbits, giant hounds—preposterous wastes of time. More likely, it’s an un-clever ruse to have Sherlock ‘accidentally’ discover some other mundane tedium; something blander than even Mycroft’s usual choice of suit.

‘What is it this time,’ Sherlock wonders to himself, the edges of his mood frayed by the unusual amount of exposure to his brother, ‘selling secrets, torturing prisoners, flight-testing weather balloons— _who cares_?!’

If there were a worthy case on, either private or solicited by Lestrade, then Sherlock would have happily refused, but there hasn’t been an interesting crime to solve in more than a week and while he is loath to admit it, Mycroft knows him all too well. With nothing to occupy it, Sherlock’s mind becomes an unkempt mass of circular thought and frantic disconnection, the volume of which is so ungodly loud that for over two years, the only quiet he could find had been at the dripping end of an expensive needle. Dartmoor may not contain anything rigorously challenging, but it _did_ a certain degree of inherent mystery.

Any top-secret military facility is bound to be a boring waste of government funding, but if there’s one thing Sherlock cannot resist—it’s knowing what the vast majority of the world does not. He will not be given this level of access to anything as secretly coveted by the government again, and so with nothing better to do, the question had then become: why not? He was bored, and it was at least one step above shooting holes into the wall of 221B--much to Mrs. Hudson’s relief, he’d not failed to observe.

                So, when the entrance to the Baskerville facility came into view, Sherlock pulled his credentials from his pocket and prepared to lie as thoroughly as only a high-functioning sociopath, contracted by the Queen himself, could.

\--

                Cold. Hunger. Emptiness. These are things with which he is familiar. There are touches throughout his waking hours, impersonal and brief, cold and artificial against his skin. Always, they are prodding and pulling, pressing and sliding and it makes his stomach turn and his body shudder.

                Now…now there is quiet. It is only him and the place that he knows—warm and wet and familiar, if dark. He does not like it here either, but here it is safe. He does not want to continue. He wants to crawl into his hiding place and sleep and never wake up. He is nearly there when the door opens and he hastens to hide from the light.

\--

                 Sherlock would not have seen it if not for the slightest flash of movement, illuminated by the dimmed overhead fluorescents suspended along the ceiling of the laboratory. A moving shadow. _Interesting._ If not for Doctor Stapleton’s prompting, Sherlock might have never discovered the tiny, well-hidden off shoot of the larger Baskerville facility.

                “You think unsanctioned testing with animal D-N-A is the foulest of crimes this facility has perpetrated? You think it ends with glowing rabbits and drug-induced hell hounds?!” Stapleton had yelled, frantic during her arrest.

                “Do tell,” Sherlock had answered disinterestedly.

                The doctor had stared at him pointedly, and began, “O-dash-J-zero-three-N—”

                “That’s enough from you!” the arresting MP had huffed, shuffling the soon-to-be discredited scientist into the back of his Hummer.

                Later, curiosity led him through a quick character search on Stapleton’s computer which had turned up a series of references to the alphanumeric sequence: O-J03N-5679-WP45. While the associated files had all been redacted in their entirety, Sherlock was able to trace the originating computer from which the most recent reports were generated: A small, secluded laboratory headed by none other than Bob Frankland, and since the good doctor was too dead to protest—having blown himself up the previous evening fleeing from a decades old, experiment-turned-crime-scene—Sherlock had no compunctions with inviting himself in.

                Cautiously, the detective tracked the direction from which the shadow had momentarily fallen over the lab. Perpendicular to Frankland’s disaster of a desk, was a large fish tank; complete with a multi-colored, porcelain canyon and tiny blue pebbles. Bubbles were expelled from the filtration system—a wet/dry, used for salt-water, he absently noted—and was the only movement within the otherwise bereft tank. "John," Sherlock read the name scrolled over a strip of masking tape and stuck to the top left corner.

                His eyes were again attracted to the canyon, which was quite large and ornate for a fish tank devoid of aquatic life. Not to mention, it was affixed to the side of the container, suspended above the pebbles at the bottom and only partially submerged. _Odd._ Carefully, Sherlock procured a step stool and set up between the desk and the tank. He then donned a fresh pair of latex rubber gloves from a nearby work table, climbed the first step and gently removed the tank's lid. His eyes swept over the ‘floating’ canyon and, deciding that whatever may or may not be inside was too small to be of any substantial danger, detached it from the apparatus holding it adrift and raised it so he could peer inside.

                Sherlock has used the phrase 'brain atrophy' several times, but never before in association with himself. However, there was no other appropriate verb for the immediate, reactionary halt of all thought and reality as he stared at the creature within. For a moment, he entertained the idea that he was hallucinating or that the tiny body before him was not possibly real—perhaps a well-crafted, life-like toy—but then it moved and, with a gasp, Sherlock dropped the canyon in shock. It plummeted to the bottom of the tank, knocking several tiny, blue pebbles up and away in water-logged, slow motion. When the creature emerged suddenly, speeding to the top of the tank with arms and tentacles a-flurry, Sherlock lurched backward, rolled over the top the desk and sprang to unsteady feet.

                “Buggering fuck!” he swore, inelegantly, limbs searching for equilibrium in an undignified pinwheel before finding purchase on the edge of another nearby shelf. “What…what…”

                The creature observed him warily, its tiny arms pulling it up just high enough to peer over the edge of the open tank. With legs that felt more like Jell-O than actual limbs, Sherlock managed to crossed the distance to the desk, where he planted himself with a stunned plunk. The creature panicked immediately, darting from one end of its glass cage to the next in a frenzy. Determined, Sherlock inhaled slowly and wrapped his mind around what he was seeing and the various hypotheses forming around _why_ he was seeing it.

Hallucination? He picked up his phone, took a picture of the deserted canyon and sent it to Mycroft.

_What does this look like to you? –SH_

_Unless this porcelain tank ornament is a piece of crucial evidence, I suggest you leave it behind and vacate the base expediently. Your security clearance ended well over an hour ago._

Not a hallucination, then.  He pocketed his phone and accepted the circumstances at face value: Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. He forced himself to look upon the creature in the tank and accept its existence. Actually, it appeared to be tiring, and as Sherlock looked more closely he observed that by human standards, its skin was pallor and drawn against the bones of his face and torso. This creature—a singular being as far Sherlock understood, clearly engineered by the scientists at Baskerville—seemed to be in very poor health.

Sherlock tapped the water of the tank to get its attention, observing closely as it backed itself up against the far side of its container. A myriad of human-like--No. Human emotions. Animals didn't have tells. _Incredible._ “You’re intelligent,” Sherlock stated.

The creature’s blue, human eyes widened in alarm, and further still when Sherlock leaned in closer. “You’re scared of me, which is fair and quite reasonable considering your size and position. Speaking of which, I should inform you that Doctor Frankland died yesterday evening and won’t be returning to tend to your care.” If there had been any vestiges of hope to observe in the creature’s face, Sherlock’s most recent statement seemed to rob it of even that.

With a resolute breath, he continued on. “You’re quite hungry, but you’re always hungry, aren’t you? Nutrients have been supplied to you intravenously likely since…birth. Curious, considering that from the torso up, you appear quite human. You have a mouth, and I assume an esophagus so why aren’t they providing you with food you can chew and swallow? Surely, it wouldn’t be _that_ costly given your infinitesimally tiny size. Unless of course you refused to eat, which I suppose is just as likely—”

There was a series of low bangs and shuffling outside of the laboratory, followed by an indiscernible string of barked orders. Sherlock’s phone buzzed loudly in the silence of the darkened lab, and he wasn’t surprised to see it was Mycroft: _Sherlock. You are testing the patience of my assistant._

“Very well,” Sherlock said, glancing around. There was a slight hesitation—perhaps a full half of a second—where Sherlock debated on what to do with the little being he’d discovered. Take it or leave it. If he left it, he could leave through the front door. If he took it…there would be a perilous journey to follow, in which the health of the already quite frail-looking creature would certainly be a concern. _Option two, obviously._ He opened every drawer of Frankland’s desk, finding nothing that would—“Ah-ha!” Sherlock snapped off one of the latex gloves he wore and dipped it into the tank, filling it halfway with water. He glanced at the name scrolled on the tank, then met the wary stare of the little creature within, cowering against the filter and addressed it gravely, “John, your options are as follows. Stay here, alone and bored until you shrivel up and die or they dissect you, OR, get in this lovely glove and come with me to London. You’ll love it. There’s…air…and sunlight—when there isn’t rain—curry, biscuits, and tea—you’ll like tea—and room to stretch your le—er—tentacles.”

The creature licked its lips, considering, as its eyes darted between the glove and Sherlock’s gaze. There was another muffled banging beyond the doors of the laboratory and suddenly he had a glove full of octo-human. “Brilliant!” Sherlock smiled, quite possibly besotted for the first time in his adult life. It was almost an afterthought that he snatched the laptop and every USB drive on, in or around the desk. He then made a precarious escape involving a very slim window, a dodgy ladder and a mysteriously awaiting SUV. Mycroft’s assistant only looked up at him once to confirm his presence before she tapped a message on her phone and the vehicle began to pull away.

                In the oversized pocket of his coat, a tiny creature of as yet unknown origin and partially wrapped in a water-filled latex glove, clung to Sherlock’s thumb. His time between cases suddenly promised to be far less boring.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock takes a closer look at his stolen loot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter: 
> 
> First image by CamilleKaze, embedded with permission (http://camillekaze.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Second image by Inchells, embedded with permission (http://inchells.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thank you both so much for allowing me to use your images for this! <3

**_MOD—Baskerville—Level 7_ **

**_Mimic Octopus Thaumoctopus mimicus [Redacted] Analysis_ **

**_Stapleton, J., D.S._ **

_MOD, Baskerville, Research Director, Department of_ _Human-Marine Analytics_ _and Development._

**_Abstract_ **

_Genetic Material extracted from a Thaumoctopus mimicus (mimic octopus) and treated with previous sample: J03N-[Redacted] has responded well to tests with DNA samples belonging to Human [Redacted] from deceased [Redacted] personnel in 1947 project: The [Redacted]. One embryo, J03N-[Redacted] shows promise for continued validity. Monitoring and growth progression persists._

**_Thesis_ **

**_[Redacted]_ **

                Sherlock yanked the USB drive out of his laptop and hurled it across the room in a fit of raw frustration. A loud series of splashes immediately followed as John scurried to the opposite end of the casserole dish currently serving as his temporary tank. Heaving a sigh, the detective straightened and rolled his neck. “How am I supposed to keep you from dying if everything of importance has been redacted?!” John stared back at him warily, even thinner now than he had been two days ago when Sherlock had stolen him away from Baskerville.

                Baskerville which was now in the process of being completely torn asunder. Anything that could have been of use would, by now, either be destroyed or unattainable. Of course, he could call Mycroft and request certain files relating to the project which borne John, but that would put him at risk of discovery. So far, it appeared his acquisition from Doctor Frankland’s lab had gone unnoticed. For how long…well, that was undeterminable. Hopefully long enough for him to figure out how to become indispensable to John’s well-being. Sherlock pushed himself away from the table with a huff and went about pacing the sitting room. 

\--

                Everything was bright here, the abundance of light unfamiliar to his sore eyes, but at least he was no longer tired. The touch that had brought him here had not been cold or painful, and there had not been any pokes since the last time. Here, there were many shapes and colors, sights and sounds to keep him entertained and his new home was warm, if small. John wiggled his tentacles against the smooth surface beneath them, curious about the vibrations the motions sent along his limbs. When he grew bored of that, he sat down with a soft splash of water and breathed deeply. It was then that he noticed it. Something…sweet? Suddenly, a lance of pain shot through his stomach and he licked his lips to taste the air.

                He needed…something. He needed—“Hrnnng…” His stomach ached, and John whimpered for a moment before drawing in another deep breath. He would have it, he decided…whatever it was. He’d never smelled anything so divine or alluring and his eyes danced over the various shapes just beyond his new home, his nose sniffing in all directions until—THERE! Without much thought or caution, John gripped the edge of his new home and lifted himself over the wall to inch toward the thing with the smell. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen. Nothing the ‘Others’ had offered had ever smelled like this, or looked so pretty. His clambered along the new surface beyond his shallow tank, his eyes fixed upon his goal until finally it was _right there_.

                Tentatively, he reached out and tapped it with a tentacle, reeling back only slightly when it wobbled and toppled over. He remembered then that the new Other had not gone far, and he whipped around quickly to see if it was still gone. Relieved to find himself alone, John inched closer to his prize, arms reaching out to lift the new, curious delight and give it a firm, testing lick. Immediately, his stomach growled and John tore into his prize with delight. Bite after bite—crunchy, sweet, and sticky—John devoured his treat with gusto, eyes watery and limbs weak with joy. The pain he’d lived with since he could remember was slowly diminishing and finally he understood. The Others had tried to push things—slimy things, tickly things, smelly things—against his face, but none of those things had been THIS!

                From deep within, a sound bubbled up from his belly and broke past his lips. A sound he had never made before, but could not help but make now. The feeling was new…the experience a wondrous thing. He would consider it later.

\--

                There was a moment of mild panic when Sherlock reentered the kitchen to find John’s baking pan turned fish tank deserted. His eyes flew to the floor, beneath the table, then back to its surface and over its contents in swift succession. What they eventually alighted upon kept the swell of pent of air he’d been holding bound within his lungs. John was out of the salt water—the necessity of which Sherlock was not yet sure of—but he was fine. Absolutely fine, and what was more, _eating_ —no, not merely eating—eviscerating Sherlock’s stack of dodgy jammers and…he appeared to be giggling. Of course… _of course._

[](http://s1374.photobucket.com/user/pamdizzle1/media/camillekazi_zps52fb724e.jpg.html)

                The undeniably absurd nature of his current undertaking (octo-human health and maintenance) had obviously leeched valuable brain cells directly from his skull. _Temptation, obvious!_ Eating was instinctual to any animal and he should have realized. Preliminary research would be a tedious waste of time, he realized, and what could he possibly learn from scientists too stupid to recognize sentience when it stared them in the face. To hell with the trite he recovered from Baskerville! He could record his own base vitals—right now, in fact!

                Stealthily, Sherlock slid his magnifying glass from the counter and approached the table. John appeared to be chewing the last of his treat, which was convenient because Sherlock was not well versed in patience. He swiped the nearby teacup and scooped John up before he could flee. John gripped the porcelain edge, his tentacles half in and half out of the cup as Sherlock carried him to the middle of the kitchen. He was clearly in distress—again. The past few days had proven a slow, difficult acclimation for John.

Sherlock had observed the creature’s tendency to hide from direct light, and so Sherlock had kept the flat as dim as possible, slowly introducing more light in increments. Troubling as well was John’s aversion to contact. For all that the creature had clung to Sherlock during transport, it now seemed that John was determined to undergo as little handling as possible. He didn’t bite, which would be even more problematic, but John _was_ slippery and as much as Sherlock detested using a guppy net on a being he suspected was self-aware, it was better than risking John injury by dropping him should panic prevail.

                “Stop shaking,” Sherlock demanded, well aware John couldn’t yet understand. “I could have easily baked you into a soufflé days ago, but here we are.” John eyed him warily for a few moments before he began to fidget. Sherlock raised his magnifying glass and watched him jostle around in an attempt to get comfortable within the cup, closely observing every move and detail. It wasn’t until John was happily licking the tea from his fingers that Sherlock realized _he_ was genuinely grinning— _odd_. He coughed awkwardly which gave his tiny captive a powerful start, sending a spray of tea onto the floor. John’s attention was then caught by the detective’s instrument and, likely unaware of his own bravado, leaned forward to take a closer look.

[](http://s1374.photobucket.com/user/pamdizzle1/media/inchells_zpsedd34355.jpg.html)

                “First adventure beyond the frying pan didn’t end with fire. Result? A heightened sense of confidence and raised self-esteem,” Sherlock noted, to which John only regarded him curiously. “You don’t behave like an octopus— _mercifully_ —suggests human-dominant or human-majority genetic input. Tentacles appear to function as legs—gripping and holding are reserved for the human appendages, interesting. No obvious camouflage or otherwise shape-shifting abilities. Gender…” Sherlock tried to get a glimpse, considered plucking John out of the cup and turning him over then shook his head. Might compromise the creature’s current amenable mood. “Gender, irrelevant for now, appears male by _human_ standards. Height: approximately twelve or…thirteen centimeters.” He smirked at the soaked crumbs that clung to John’s face and shoulders. “Likes tea and biscuits.”

                Sherlock turned back toward the table, retook his seat and placed John’s teacup gently before him. He picked up a dodgy jammer and moved it across John’s field of vision, blue eyes following it attentively. Sherlock then withdrew the treat and placed his finger before the small face, repeating the movement, satisfied when John’s eyes tracked it instead. He then held up the treat and pointed at it with his finger: “Food.”

                John’s eyes snapped to Sherlock’s face, and the detective repeated the word, drawing out the opening ‘f’ and vowel then emphasizing the final consonant: “Ffffff-oooooooo-Duh.”

                John licked his lips and opened his tiny mouth. The sound was very small, but it was clear and the voice not so much a squeak as a solid, nasally tenor: “Fu…fuh…fah—oooooooh—dah.”

                Sherlock stared back at John in stunned silence, his mind deleting any earlier hypotheses he might have had concerning brain development in relation to approximate age. Whatever they’d done to develop this creature at Baskerville, John’s mind was clearly well past the stage of infancy. He shouldn’t have been capable of repeating the word, not on his first try. John was looking at him expectantly and Sherlock grinned, “Well done, you.” He nodded his head, “Yes. Food.” And he handed the dodgy jammer to John, who smiled, but sat it aside. Full, apparently. “Save it for later, then.”

                So focused was he on this latest revelation, that Sherlock failed to notice the clicking of heels before it was too late. “Hoo, hoo, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson knocked before the door creaked open slightly and she began, “There’s a parcel here that was left for you while you were away—”

                “Go away, Misses Hudson, I’m busy!” Sherlock shouted back, scooping up John in the tea cup and rushing into the bathroom. He set him gently into the sink, then thought better of it— _no plug—_ as his eyes flew around the room. He yanked the plug from around the bath’s faucet and shoved it into the drain, placing his cargo in the center. “Don’t move,” he whispered.

                “No need to be grumpy,” Mrs. Hudson tutted from the sitting room and added as an afterthought, “It better not be anything involving gun powder, young man. I just had the stairway repaired from the last one.”

                “It isn’t,” he insisted, sweeping into the room and snatching the parcel. “Thank you very much for dropping by,” Sherlock placated as he placed a guiding hand to the small of her back, “now if you don’t mind, this particular—noncorrosive, noninflammable—experiment is very time sensitive. Out you go.”

                “Sherlock,” she protested, annoyance clear, “I—”  

                With a gentle nudge he managed her past the threshold of the flat and slammed the door, her soft protestations barely audible on the other side as she stamped indignantly down the stairs. “I’ll be putting any damages on your rent, Sherlock Holmes,” She called back loudly before a telling clang echoed through the building.

                Sherlock opened the parcel hastily, unveiling a vintage bottle of wine, a ‘thank you’ from Mycroft for his assistance at Baskerville. Mrs. Hudson would no doubt appreciate it as a suitable apology. Later, of course. Now, what he really needed was a proper tank for John and a DVD set of Sesame Street. 


	3. Neither Pet Nor Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's slowly loses his mind as Sesame Street plays on repeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featured art is used with permission from BubbleCoffee. You can find the image (embedded below) on their deviantart as well: http://bubblecoffee.deviantart.com/art/Octo-John-392890427

John did not like this. He did not like it all. “Late,” he muttered to himself, as he made another lap around his tank. He had grown annoyed with the stupid puppets on the stupid learning programs Sherlock had left playing on loop in the flat. John had first learned the English alphabet, followed by numbers. After a full three days, he had learned many words and numbers, how to tell time and form sentences to ask for things. If only there were someone here to ask, that was.

                Sherlock had been gone for five days, and John was upset. He wanted to learn new things, to understand the world around him and to learn more about what made him so different. He wanted to tell Sherlock that he was being irre—eeerie—irresponsible!—for leaving him here unattended. And he _really_ wanted Kermit the frog to stuff it already. John dove down beneath the water and swam into his ceramic canyon to drown out the sounds of Elmo’s World. John might be small, but now that he had words, he could tell Sherlock that he was not a child. He would demand less annoying programming.

                John eyed the door through which Sherlock had gone, his stomach feeling unsettled. He was worried despite his upset with his new companion. Adjusting to his new life had been much easier than living in the dark space of his previous home. There was far less handling, for one, and he'd not been poked with anything sharp since being carried off either. He was rarely alone now too, and he found he much prefered the noise of the city and Sherlock's indecipherable muttering to the empty silence of that dark room he'd known before. Which is why this was so unsettling. Sherlock had never left him alone for this long and John was beginning to miss him. He missed the pacing and the violin music, he missed the shouting and the smell of tea. John’s gaze was now toward the kitchen as he swam for the surface. Sherlock had taped a package of cookies to the side of his new container the day before he left, but they had run out yesterday. He pulled himself up to sit on the cornered edge of his tank, his tentacles swishing over the surface of the water. Sherlock made walking look so easy, but John did not have legs. He feared his tentacles would dry out before he made the distance and back—and dry tentacles were painful, he’d learned that the hard way.

                The door to the flat snapped open suddenly. “FISH OIL!” Sherlock’s voice boomed, startling John from his perch and back into the water. Sherlock’s eyes were bright as they fixed onto John, and he excitedly approached the tank. “John, this is wonderful!”

                “LATE!!!” John yelled, sputtering water and very annoyed. He was proud to have been loud enough to make all of Sherlock’s wild enthusiasm come to an abrupt stop. He pointed at the TV, “TURN IT OFF!” Sherlock stood, gaping at him and John sighed. “ _Please,”_ he added, pleadingly.

                Sherlock took the two steps required to reach the TV and pressed it off. John was careful to pay attention to how it was done so he could do it himself if he ever again had the need. When silence fell over the flat, hebreathed a sigh of relief and flopped backward onto the water, his body floating languidly. “Finally,” he quietly muttered.

                When he opened his eyes, two large, green-blue ones were staring back at him from an alarmingly short distance. He started for the second time in three minutes and nearly went under again. Sherlock’s mouth twisted into an amused half-smile, and John splashed his face to get even. “Not funny,” he scolded.

                “This is…unprecedented,” Sherlock finally said. Then, more exapserated, added, “ _Talking_!” As was seemingly the habit with everyone John had ever encountered, Sherlock reached for him with two over-large hands. John scooted away, frowning.

                “I’m not Goldie,” he fairly spat.

                “Goldie…?” Sherlock tilted his head, considering.

                “Elmo’s fish,” John clarified. “And I’m not a child. You should ask first. Use your manners!”

                Understanding lit Sherlock’s eyes and then he straightened. “I see,” he replied, his voice grave and somehow more distant, as if John was no longer right in front of him. Sherlock seemed instantly different from how John had always seen him…stiffer, like a piece of wood.

                _Feelings,_ John realized. He’d hurt Sherlock’s feelings. That was also bad manners. “I’m glad you’re home,” he said quickly.  “I…missed you.”

                Sherlock’s eyes snapped back to him, and John was relieved to see that some of the earlier excitement had returned to them. Sherlock held out his hand again, and smiled. “If I may?” he asked.

                John nodded and gripped Sherlock’s fingers with arms and tentacles, hoisting himself into the man’s open palms. “What’s this about fish oil?”

                Sherlock’s smile was back in full as he replied, “Mobility, John!”

\--

                It was much later, after some take out and a nice cap full of tea, that John found himself in a bath tub full of bubbles and Sherlock Holmes. The detective—that was what Sherlock called himself, John had been informed earlier that day—had been out of country, working on a ‘case.’ John didn’t yet understand half of the things that had been described to him, but it sounded scary…and exciting. After dinner, however, Sherlock had seemed very tired and, to be honest, he smelled a bit too. Like fish oil, as a matter of fact. John had suggested a bubble bath, though he didn’t mention the idea had come from something he’d seen on Sesame Street. Because maybe, just maybe, after having seen it a hundred times, John had decided it was something he wanted to try. Bubbles looked…interesting and Sherlock had said John could.

                The bubbles _were_ interesting; light and fluffy, if a bit tickly, and they smelled good too. John enjoyed dragging his tentacles through them, and listening to the crinkling sound they made as they popped and scattered against his skin. He liked scooping them up with his hands and then blowing them off to see how far he could send them down the other end of the tub.

A deep, rumbling chuckle caused John to stiffen and his face to heat. Sherlock had been so unusually still and quiet since entering the bath, laying his head back and closing his eyes, that John had nearly forgotten he wasn’t alone. “You’re quite the awful kraken, John.”    

John knit his eyebrows together and frowned. “What’s a kraken?”

Sherlock sat up abruptly, sending John off with a series unexpected waves to the far end of the tub. John laughed, because that had been far more fun than sitting in placid water, as he swam back to the other side. “A kraken, John, is a fictitious sea monster which sailors of all sorts from previous centuries used to fear would come to terrorize their ships and send them to their deaths at the bottom of the ocean.”

“If it’s not real, why would they fear it?”

“They didn’t know that krakens weren’t actually monsters. Most people believe that what these sailors actually saw were giant squids, which we now know _do_ exist,” Sherlock explained with a wave of his hand. “I once had to study various specimens of squid for a case involving a rare chemical paralysis agent—”

“I don’t know what any of that means,” John interrupted, his head spinning.

“Right. We’ll remedy that in the morning! I’ll introduce you to the Internet. This is all so much more interesting now that you're talking! The fact that you learned so quickly, oh you'll _love_ the Internet, I think. Of course, you’ll need something more size-appropriate, perhaps a tablet or a netbook...” Sherlock clapped his hands together, then reached over the side of the tub. “Anyway—krakens!” From somewhere behind the tub, Sherlock had pulled out a plastic, toy boat. “Do your worst.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” John replied, not amused in the slightest. “Sherlock, I’m not pretending to be a kraken for—”

Sherlock had pushed the boat at him from behind causing it to gently thump John in the back of the head.  Stiffly, John raised a tentacle from the water and pushed the offending toy away. He turned around to issue some abuse to his assailant when—thump!—it hit him again. “Sherlock…” he growled lowly.

“It’s not me,” Sherlock denied. “It was the centrifugal force of the water when I do this.” To demonstrate, Sherlock lifted his knees to the surface of the water, then quickly pushed them back below. The resulting wave sent John up on a high wave, then down. The boat followed. With an annoyed growl, John seized the thing with three of his tentacles, lifted it from the water, and launched it at Sherlock’s stupid face.

“Who’s an awful kraken now?” John sassed. There was a moment of absolute silence between them before they both erupted into very childish giggles indeed. John realized then, that this must be what it was to have a friend. 

[](http://s751.photobucket.com/user/Wingstar102/media/photophp_zpsd2552a93.jpg.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updates. I've been writing original fiction and trying to meet deadlines, so my fanfiction took a bit of a backseat. We'll get into the fish oil next chapter ;) <3

**Author's Note:**

> XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
> 
> I also write original m/m erotica fiction, if you're interested. You can find it [here](http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/index.php?cPath=55_1117)


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